


Gods' Laughter

by VileWile



Category: Ranger's Apprentice - John Flanagan
Genre: B4 ending rewrite, Gen, RA Challenge #2
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-01
Updated: 2020-10-10
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:55:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23432026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VileWile/pseuds/VileWile
Summary: There is nothing sweeter than when a reunion that once seemed beyond hope finally comes to pass, and nothing more bitter than to realize afterwards that, despite all our efforts, some things will never be the same again.
Relationships: Cassandra | Evanlyn & Halt O'Carrick, Crowley Meratyn/Halt O'Carrick, Halt O'Carrick & Will Treaty, King Duncan & Halt O'Carrick
Comments: 23
Kudos: 57
Collections: RA Fanfiction Challenge #2





	1. Remembrance

**Author's Note:**

> I absolutely adore the entire B2-B4 arc, but there's just too much emotional stuff going underneath that never gets addressed. Or maybe I'm just imagining things, but the ground is soft and I'm willing to dig.
> 
> Thank you Lychee for being my beta.

“Never can true reconcilement grow where wounds of deadly hate have pierced so deep...”

― John Milton, _Paradise Lost_

A faint wisp of smoke and a pinch of ash.

It was all that remained from the strip of thin paper brought by a pigeon that morning. It burned easily over a candle standing atop Ranger Commandant's desk, and soon became undone, yet the words it had contained were indelibly seared into Crowley's mind.

If only he'd got a mercy of doubt concerning their truthfulness... But no. It'd been sent by one of his best men. His name was James Darklyn, he was a bearer of a bronze oakleaf and would've had easily earned a silver one, if a stray crossbow bold hadn't cost him an eye on his last year of apprenticeship. He'd been serving as Crowley's agent for over ten years now, and his messages were always reliable.

This one came from Dufftown, a major port on the eastern coast of the Kingdom. Its content was not long, but nonetheless troubling. No, not troubling. _Terrifying_.

Crowley closed his eyes, and the stream of words once again entered his thoughts, unbidden.

_I've overhead members of two independent ship crews claiming that the Skandian oberjarl vowed death to the King and all his relatives, supposedly as an act of vengeance for his son having fallen in the recent war with Morgarath. Captains of these ship (both merchant vessels returned from Teutlandt) confirmed under an oath the veracity of this information._

They'd been waiting for seven months for a demand of ransom from the oberjarl. Waiting in vain. Now, it seemed there was never going to be any.

How could he tell Duncan? Could he, at all? He'd noticed the King becoming more and more anxious in the recent weeks, even though he'd been hiding it well. He could not imagine what such a news would do to him.

He knew what it could do to himself, though.

He remembered the time after Queen Rosalind's demise, when he'd ridden day and night with the newborn Princess in his arms. He remembered how she'd always seemed to be everywhere at once, a vivacious golden-haired toddler mooching around the legs of nobles arriving to the capital. He remembered teaching her how to whistle and that she'd used the new skill to annoy her father with no end. He remembered how she'd once fallen down from a tree breaking her wrist and had not been much bothered by her injury, but rather that Duncan would forbid her to go outside again. He remembered walking through the forest surrounding Araluen Castle, showing her how to tell roe deer from red by their tracks, and secretly training her with a knife at her request.

He remembered it all.

And he wept.


	2. Such an Adorable Smile

Cassandra wiped away a stray strand of hair that obscured her vision and looked up from her sketch. The sun hung high in the cloudless sky, making the air surprisingly warm for this part of year. It was a perfect day for sailing; after a week of near calm, wind have finally increased to strong breeze, letting _Wolfwind_ glide under full sails at a rare speed. The ship was eating up the miles of the Narrow Sea, and each mile brought her closer to home.

A small smile played at her lips. It seemed much longer than a year since she'd left Araluen, and longer still since she'd last seen her father. God, how she missed him. More than once during that time she'd thought she would never see him again, and now she was only few days away. It felt almost too good to be true.

She shook herself back from thought and concentrated on her drawing. It was a simple charcoal sketch, nothing fancy, but she was more than glad that before the travel she'd asked Erak whether he might've possibly had a pile of paper stashed somewhere in his stockhouses. It turned out he had indeed, and it was not even that mouldy. Which was a true blessing - during her previous journey on this route she'd been far too afraid to get bored, but this time she could find use for some entertainment.

She gripped the charcoal sideways, creating the necessary shadows under Will's jaw and eyebrows, then added some spotlights in his unruly mop of hair. It was mainly him and Horace she drew; she still didn't trust her skill with beards, which ruled out Halt and the Skandians. Tilting her head, she examined the work. It was almost finished, but something was still amiss. With a slight frown, she corrected the shape of the dimples in Will's cheeks. He had such an adorable smile. Pity, there hadn't been much reason for him to show it in those past months.

Suddenly, something obscured the sun for a moment. Cassandra looked up, only to see the very person from her drawing. But unlike on the paper, he wasn't smiling.

Cassandra watched with mounting concern as Will rushed past her, tears streaming down his cheeks, jaw clenched, helpless anger glinting in his eyes.

"Will?"

The only response was a sound of the slammed trapdoor as he disappeared underdeck.

Her first impulse was to run after him, but she decided it might not be the best moment. Will had looked like he needed some time alone, and if he decided he wanted to talk, Horace was down there too, tending to Kicker's injury he'd discovered during the morning check-up. And, of course, there was also Tug.

She bit her lip, pondering leaving it as it was for the time being, but finally curiosity won. Hefting her file of drawings under one arm, she stood up and went toward the prow, the direction Will'd come from.

***

She found Halt. He was standing by the railing, his eyes looking somewhere past the horizon. She never before saw him so detached; it seemed he didn't even notice her arrival.

"Princess."

An unmistakable deep smooth voice. So he did notice, after all, though he didn't move in the slightest.

"Please, call me by my name. There's no need for titles" she said. The feeling that something was off about him only increased as she approached.

"Such a curious name" he went on. "Cassandra. After an ancient princess who could foretell the future, but to whom no one listened. I wonder what your mother had in mind when she gave it to you. Maybe Crowley would know."

Cassandra couldn't bar her surprise. Such odd things for him to say. And something else, a small wince when he mentioned the Ranger Commandant. He smoothed it over so quickly she would've missed it had she blinked the wrong moment. In fact, she wasn't entirely certain that she'd seen it at all.

"What's happened to Will?" She inquired warily, not knowing what to expect. Will still wasn't quite like his old self after his experiences in slavery, but he was getting better. Even his nightmares seemed less frequent since one particularly bad night he'd pulled his bedroll beside Halt's and clung with his whole body to his mentor, who in turn had started behaving like a particularly diligent mother cat, protectively enveloping Will with his arm and sending cross looks at anyone walking nearby. She stifled a surge of amusement at a recollection of a Skandian who'd dared to make a remark on that. After Halt'd issued a few strong words in his direction, the fellow vamoosed with great importunity. It'd looked suspiciously close to scuttling.

"He didn't take well the news that I won't be coming back to Araluen with you."

What? Cassandra frowned in consternation. It was absurd; there were on a ship heading to Araluen, after all. Why wouldn't he want to come back home?

"Why not?"

For a moment there was no answer; only the muscles around his eyes tensed. Then he sighed deeply.

"Because I can't. I've been banished."

She stared, too stunned to speak. Finally, she regained control of her voice.

"My father? My father banished you?! He'd never..."

Halt actually smiled. It was pained and very sad smile, and she realised how silly she must have sounded. And yet, it was unthinkable. Halt was a legend, a war hero who'd saved the Kingdom from doom by Morgarath's hand. And before that, her father's life. What could he have done to warrant such a punishment?

"How has it happened?" Her own voice sounded oddly muffed, and she realized her throat had run dry.

Halt's reply was cautious and deliberate, as if something incredibly important depended on the right choice of each word.

"Your father and I had... differing opinions... regarding certain priorities. He would not hear my side, so I had to force his hand."

He looked at her, and apparently noticing her confusion, explained in unusually rough voice:

"In short, he didn't let me go to find you and Will. I had to make sure he changed his mind, but he insisted on eluding me. So, I went to one dingy tavern, threw some insults mingled with a bit of slander about him and let myself get arrested when the watchmen finally arrived. Amusing, how little it takes to get charged with high treason. Anyway, it went smoothly from there."

Cassandra's mind raced, trying to comprehend all she'd just heard. Suddenly, a thought hit her.

"But... If it was not you then... then whom _did_ he sent?"

For a long while the Ranger didn't reply. A very long while. And then, she saw that his knuckles had gone completely white on the railing.

"Whom?" she asked quietly, squeezing his arm, and felt ominous cold rising in her chest.

"No one. He sent no one."

No. _It's impossible. Impossible! Father would never..._

"I am sorry, Princess."

It was the pity in his voice that made her believe. But she was not prepared for the shock that came with the realisation.

The file of drawings fell from her hand before she even noticed.

Halt caught it, somehow, before the pages could dispel in the wind. He really did have flashing reflexes; in different circumstances she'd have probably found the display of skill impressive, but now she felt merely numb.

It took her a long time to perceive that the Ranger was still kneeling in the same spot where he'd initially landed. He seemed frozen in place, his gaze fixed on the page that came on the top of the pile.

The newest Will's portrait.

"Halt?"

He shook his head slightly, in the same manner people do in the morning when they try to fend off the remains of sleep. And when he stood up, the look on his face... God, what did it even mean?

Then she remembered. That was not what she should be wondering about. There was a more pressing matter. The shock was beginning to wear off, and she no longer felt numb. Beside initial dismay, there was something else. Determination. She needed to know why her father had done this to her. She would get to know.

"Why?"


	3. Too Late

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a while. Why is writing so hard?
> 
> Chapter featuring Halt "It's A Feeling What Do I Do" O'Carrick and King "Grief? Remind Me Later" Duncan.
> 
> I promise this story will have actual coherent timeline later on.

It was well into the night, the only light coming from the even rows of campfires spread over the Plains of Uthal. Each of them was surrounded by a platoon of soldiers - men mourning their fallen friends or rejoicing in being alive, tending to their equipment or staring idly into the flames, singing rowdy songs or retelling time and time again the story of a squire who'd challenged and defeated the Dark Lord himself, destroying once and for all the ominous menace that had hung over the realm for the last sixteen years. The war was finally over. But not for all.

***

A lone rider passed through the camp, the hoofbeats of his horse unnoticeable among the sounds of ongoing celebrations. The lower part of his cloak was covered with stains of salt, and the wet leather of his boots glistened in the flickering light. His mount wasn't much of a sight either; a small shaggy horse with legs coated up to the knees with thick mud. He rode toward the center of the camp, toward the knoll where a big red tent stood, a scarlet pennant depicting leopard's head fluttering on its top in the gusts of wind.

The horse came from canter to a full stop as his rider reined him right in front of the tent's entrance, without sparing as much as a glance toward the guardsmen placed on the both sides of it. They did nothing to hinder him as he went inside, though; by now, they knew better than to bother a Ranger. Particularly this Ranger. Particularly when he wore an expression like that.

***

Halt let the tentflap fall back into place, his eyes narrowing slightly as he took stock of the surroundings.

The interior of the tent was dominated by a folding table completely covered with loose sheets of paper intertwined with massive stacks of reports, most of them leaning precariously. It was a complete mess, and so was the man sitting beside the desk.

Little remained of his usual imposing presence. His shoulders were slumped, his hair disheveled, and the dark shadows under his eyes deeper then lack of sleep and amount of work could account for. Not that he seemed to had been working when the Ranger came. He appeared lost in thought, watching something great distance away that was not even there.

Halt had never seen his king so despondent. Not only that; he looked old, so old as if he'd aged a decade in the course of the last few days. But it was not what raised his concern. The worst of it was that the whole scene oozed with plain and utter despair.

"Sire."

The King shook himself from his reverie and shifted his gaze toward the source of the voice. There was a short moment, right after he recognized the newcomer, when a glimmer of hope shone in his green eyes. Only to get snuffed like a candle as soon as he met his rangers gaze.

"I was too late." Halt was surprised how steady it sounded. Much steadier then he felt, for certain.

King's face tensed, the creases on his forehead distinct in the uneven light.

"Tell me." His voice was flat and hollow. Dead.

The Ranger felt the taut knot of guilt fixed in his chest tighten even harder. Strange; he'd thought it was not possible anymore. He looked away, absentmindedly raking his hair with one hand. Suddenly, he felt tired. So very tired.

"The Skandians that'd captured them deserted at the beginning of the battle. They had ships anchored in a gulf beyond the fens; I tracked them down, but they were already at the beach. I shot some of them, but they were barely in my range. They sailed away before I could get to them."

It seemed so plain when he said it like that. None of the frustration and pain he felt when the boat drifted away right beyond his reach. So close. So far.

But what more could he say? There were no such words. So he only added, in a voice barely louder than a whisper:

"I am sorry, my lord."

The King leaned forward in his chair and buried his face in his hands.

"So she's gone," he muttered softly.

Halt was aware there were a lot of people who thought he always knew what to do. A lot of fools.

Not that he was any wiser. He just stood there, completely helpless, and everything was inadequate and nothing was right. Time he'd needed so desperately during the day, time he'd raced against with all he'd got, and in vain- now it flowed languidly, as if mocking him, dark and dense like congealing blood.

Slowly, tentatively, he put a hand on the other man's shoulder. It felt so awkward. It shouldn't have, he'd done it often enough with Gilan. And with Will. _Will..._

Each time he thought about his apprentice, a new wave of the old pain washed over him. He couldn't believe mere hours had passed since-

No, he just could not bear it any longer.

"Duncan I... I'll find them. _I will_. I'll go at dawn- Damn it, I'll go right now, just..."

"No."

Halt took half a step away, taken aback. Not only by the abrupt rebuff , but by how firmly and peremptorily it was delivered. And when the King looked at him again, his eyes were hard and cold, all weakness gone.

"You'll go to Crowley. He'll give you your orders."

There were very few things that could still surprise him. Yet now he felt truly poleaxed. What he was hearing made no sense.

He shook his head, both in refusal and disbelief.

"I cannot do it."

"You can and you will."

"But..."

"It is an order, Ranger."

Their eyes locked, green against black, and for a long while, the only sound was the wind beating against the cloth of the tent.

"It's not over yet," Halt said finally. The words were quiet, but they carried unmistakable threat.

But the King of Araluen wasn't in the habit of being fazed by threats.

"Remember what you've sworn."

Oh, he remembered. Every word of it. But he also remembered what he'd promised.

The Ranger did not wait for a formal dismissal. Without as much as half of a bow, he spun on his heel and quit.

Propriety could go to hell.


	4. Better Times

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know you'd rather expect the Spanish Inquisition than an update from me, and yet here we are. Who knows what else may happen in this insane year.
> 
> Frankly, I never really planned either this chapter or the next one (which I already have, so no six-month break this time), but well, Cralt tends to happen even to the best of us.
> 
> If any of it is readable, it's thanks to the betaing skills of Pippin and Zunnie.

The first thing Crowley saw when he woke up was Halt's face.

He probably should be used to it by now. Since few months ago, when they had started their quest to restore the Corps and foil Morgarath's plans, there was little time they hadn't spent together - and a good part of it in the wilderness of the country's interior, where cold rainy nights and scarcity of equipment forced them to use every source of heat they could.

Which mostly happened to be each other.

Of course, this was no longer valid here, in the middle of the Araluen Castle, inside the apartment Crowley had received as the newly appointed Commandant, with a stack of thick blankets and fire raging in an impressive hearth.

 _It seems it's already too late for that to matter_ , he thought, and realized he'd been unwittingly smiling the whole time.

He propped himself on one elbow and tilted his head to the side to get a better look.

Halt was still dozing off, his black hair sloppy and tousled, with several strands falling on his forehead. His cheeks were covered with a few days' worth of stubble, and it seemed he'd soon be able to grow quite a decent beard, which for some reason Crowley found oddly entertaining. In the rays of morning light his features were unusually soft, giving him a surprisingly young look. _Though it shouldn't be a surprise_ , Crowley noted ruefully. He was just looking his age. In better times, he'd be barely old enough to be a fourth year apprentice. It was all too easy to forget that, with Halt's expression normally verging from that of aloof indifference to displeased frown or threatening scowl. But the times were as they were, and hence around his neck there was a cord with a new oakleaf, which now glistened brightly, untouched yet by tarnish.

An idea fell into Crowley's mind.

Slowly, careful not to rouse the other Ranger, he untied the knot and snatched Halt's oakleaf. Then he went to the trickier part of replacing it with his own one; once he was close to exposure as Halt apparently felt something of his ministrations and shifted position, but finally he emerged fully successful.

He wondered how long it would take Halt to notice and what his reaction would be. Something hilarious with a bit of luck. Not to mention all the opportunities to pester him about his scandalous lack of alertness. _What an awful character I have,_ Crowley thought, very pleased with himself, though his mood was dampened somewhat when he saw the size of the pile of documents he had to deal with this morning.

He decided he might as well make coffee first.

*

Crowley was almost halfway through the stack when Halt got up. The process, as Crowley noticed with well-hidden amusement, involved a lot of cat-like stretching and furious hair raking, which left it in an even more disheveled state than it was before. Finally, the younger man sent a covetous look toward Crowley's coffee mug.

"You could've made a second one."

"I could've" agreed the Commandant joyfully, ignoring the slight note of reproof in Halt's voice. He also pretended to ignore the glare that followed his reply. It would be unseemly for him to look too satisfied.

*

Crowley frowned, perusing once more the file of reports. Still nothing from Leander. He'll have to send someone to check on him, as the delay became long enough to indicate trouble.

He reached for his mug, but his hand met only empty air.

He looked up, only to confirm the table top's underwhelmingly coffeeless state.

There could be only one reason for this.

_Halt!_

Halt, indeed, was there, leaning back in a chair so far that its front legs hovered a few inches above the floor (Crowley had told him many times not to damage his chairs like that - all in vain), and sipped Crowley's coffee with an insolently smug expression.

"Halt!"

"Crowley!" Halt replied mockingly, right before taking a huge swig from the mug.

"It's my coffee!"

"Our coffee." Halt corrected in his most polite tone, as if to show that he was ready to magnanimously forgive the Commandant being so shamefully misinformed.

Crowley had put a lot of work into learning to control his troublesome temper, but right now he felt like all this effort had been for nothing. Friendly banter and occasional mischief were one thing, blatant coffee thievery was another.

He slammed the stack of papers against the table and stood up.

"That's enough. Give it back."

"I don't think I will."

"As your commanding officer I order you..."

"Oh, stop boasting, no one here is going to be impressed. If you want it, come here and take it." There was a clear challenge in his voice, and Crowley didn't need any more encouragement.

*

A triumphant smile began forming on his face the moment he managed to wrench the mug from Halt's hand in the chaos that ensued, but shortly after that his consciousness was abruptly invaded by a feeling of falling followed by a terrible crash.

There was a moment of confusion before he identified the sudden wetness on his face and hair as his own coffee, and the oddly shaped object he was lying on as Halt. It took him another short while to grasp how exactly he landed in this situation. Apparently, the direct reason of his current predicament was a severe case of chair toppling. The indirect reason was, of course, Halt and his complete inability to sit properly or respect other people's property.

Crowley had just begun to ponder the best way to express his indignation, when he was unexpectedly forestalled.

"See what you've done! You've spilled my coffee!"

Crowley was effectively rendered speechless by the sheer audacity of this bastard.

" _You_ 've spilled _my_ coffee" he amended, having finally recovered enough to speak.

"Fine, fine. We’ve spilled our coffee" Halt stated in his most reasonable and conciliatory tone. "Very unfortunate. Now you'll make us another one and everything will be alright."

"You-" Crowley seethed, searching for a sufficiently scorching insult, but was put off by Halt's suddenly curious expression.

The younger man's hand reached toward the oakleaf that had apparently freed itself from Crowley's shirt during the skirmish and now dangled happily from his neck. Halt examined it carefully, and slowly reached under his own collar. Crowley knew what conclusion this investigation must inevitably lead to, so he observed the younger man's face instead. He expected various possible reactions, but not the look Halt gave him.

The previous teasing manner was gone, and his dark eyes became now frighteningly serious. He appeared dismayed, almost shocked; there was also something else about him, a sort of fragile uncertainty.

With a lurching feeling in his stomach, Crowley realized that Halt read to it more, much more than he'd initially intended it to be.

"Crowley, what... what am I supposed to make of that?"

He could still laugh it off and say it was just a joke. It would even be true.

Or it wouldn't.

Reaching one of those split-second decisions that had saved their lives so many times, he pulled himself closer to Halt and kissed him within the same smooth movement.

He felt how the younger man tensed from surprise at his abrupt action, and he experienced a sudden pang of fear that Halt was going to push him back any moment, but it never happened; instead he wrapped his arms around Crowley's back and gave in to his kiss. Finally, when the Ranger Commandant had a serious air deficit and a strong conviction that things couldn't possibly get better than this, Halt's grip suddenly tightened and the next instant Crowley was lying on his back with Halt on top of him, kissing him back.

It somehow seemed to last both a very long and a very short time, and when it ended, Crowley knew exactly how he should answer Halt's question.

"Halt, I love you."

The younger Ranger, still panting slightly, looked at him with an unreadable expression. Then he smiled, and it was a smile Crowley had never seen before; quite peculiarly, it seemed both satisfied and shy.

"Alright Crowley, you've won" he said with an unusually husky voice. "I'll make you this coffee."

*

They kept each other's oakleaves for the next seventeen years.


	5. Fifty Steps

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Hessy and Melany for help with this chapter.
> 
> Fluff experiment is finished, now back to where we belong.

They tell him they've found a drunk Ranger spitting blasphemous slanders against the King. They tell him he tried to shoot their sergeant, that the man would be dead if not for the faulty bowstring. They tell him the Ranger didn't oppose when they arrested him, that he answered no questions, only smiled like a madman when they put him in the dungeon. And Crowley knows, knows with absolute certainty that his worst fear became true.

And even though he knows, he still doesn't believe. Because it is Halt. Halt has never failed him, and never would. Halt would never do what he's just done.

*

Forty-two. Forty-three. Forty-four.

He counts the uneven stairs as he walks down, and with each step the light becomes dimmer, the shadows darker, the musty smell heavier. The closer he gets to his destination, the slower his stride; it gives him at least a few more precious moments of doubt. Only his heart beats ever faster.

Forty-five.

Forty-six.

It is his fault, he knows. Too late now; he should've known the moment he saw that look in Halt's eyes, heard that note in his voice right before they parted ways. _"Then I’ll just have to change his mind."_ It's strange how clearly he remembers those words.

Forty-seven.

The guardsmen bow to him and one of them opens the gate. The old lattice of cast iron creaks in the hinges, freshly torn flecks of rust whirl in the torchlight. Just a couple more steps.

Forty-eight.

Forty-nine.

Fifty.

*

He's lying on the floor in the middle of the cell, the ropes still tied around his wrists and ankles. Crowley recognizes the black hair, unruly as usual, but with more white on the temples than he remembers, and in few places it's plastered with something that looks uncomfortably similar to dried blood.

At first Halt doesn't move, and Crowley thinks he's unconscious, but then he turns his head, a slow and deliberate motion; there's something almost ominous in it, in a way Crowley can't quite place. The flickering flames reflect on the surface of the painfully familiar eyes, and it looks as if small fires were burning inside his dark irises.

There's also something more, something Crowley has seen there before, but never directed _at him_. It looks like scorn.

"Crowley."

Something's off in the way Halt says it, as though the name didn't feel right on his tongue.

"Halt, what have you done?" he asks, and his voice is no more than a whisper, but it's still awkwardly loud in the still silence of the dungeon.

"What you wouldn't." And as he says that, there's an almost cruel glow in his otherwise unreadable stare.

"Yes, Crowley. You could've done it easily. You are the Commandant, you have access to the king day and night, you are the godfather of his daughter, you could make him listen. But instead... Instead you let it all fall on me, though what would be a mere inconvenience for you will now be the end of me. Are you pleased with yourself?"

Crowley suddenly feels an iron-like taste in his mouth.

"You think that I wanted it? That I feel any better about it than you do?"

Halt snorts derisively.

"I don't care what you feel, only what you do. Which is, nothing."

"And what are _you_ doing? Breaking your oath, earning yourself a charge of treason in the most foolish way possible, right when we have Foldar running loose and plotting hell only knows what, with this whole post-war mess to boot. The King-"

"Oh, fuck Foldar, fuck my oath, fuck the King. I have much more important things to see to."

Crowley felt as if someone's punched him in the gut. _So you're truly lost._ He didn't fully believe it. Until now, he still had a wane semblance of hope things would go back to normal, as they always did despite Halt's various excesses. He hoped that Halt was just drunk, that he let his emotions get the better of him. But this is inconceivable, a negation of all they've stood for. Now he knows that nothing will be the same again. He sees his friend – his brother – is indeed beyond the point of no return. And he speaks, forcing the words through the growing lump in his throat:

"We have the greatest rise in banditry since the first war. What of all the people who will die because of it? What about the Rangers who keep fighting for them? We've almost lost two men just this month. Fuck them, too?" And before he even finishes speaking a thought cames, unbidden: _“We've lost"? There's no "us" anymore._

Crowley glimpses, for the shortest instant, a gaping pit of sorrow at the bottom of Halt's eyes; but the next moment they are again as hard and impenetrable as the walls of his cell, and when he answers, his voice is completely cold.

"And what about Will? You sentence him to die and are too much of a coward to even acknowledge it."

The muscles of Crowley's jaw have begun to ache, but Halt gives him no respite.

"And of course there's the Princess. Little Cassie, clutching the rim of your cloak. What a sweet sight it was. Maybe you're right, maybe she'll be fine. Maybe whoever captured her will not laugh in her face and actually believe she's a princess. And yet... It's true Skandians love gold, but they love trophies even more. And what greater trophy than an actual crown princess? But maybe he will sell her back. Maybe he'll not even realize Duncan will still pay even if she's a bit worse for wear, and won't take an opportunity of spending a few pleasant nights in such a good company-

"That's enough," Crowley hisses through clenched teeth, anger boiling in him, at Halt, at fate, at the world. At all the vicious gods.

For a while that seems much longer than it really is, they stare at each other in silence, and it's painfully obvious to each of them there is no more that can be said, no more that can be done, no more that can be changed. And then, unexpectedly, Halt closes his eyes, and in this moment he looks again like his old self, only very tired.

"I envy you, in a way," he says, and the words are quiet and strangely hollow. "To be able to make yourself blind and deaf, to not have to think about what hurts too much to bear... But I could never look away, and for me there can be no break, no end, except for one..." his voice fades out, as if he'd become too exhausted to go on, but Crowley watches him still, not ready to let go, to give up, and it's later, much later when he finally turns sharply on his heel and walks away.

He will see him one more time. One more time hear his voice. And then...

Then...

_“I envy you, in a way. To be able to make yourself blind and deaf, to not have to think about what hurts too much to bear…”_

Halt was wrong, for once. Crowley can't do that. Not in the slightest.


End file.
